


Lemons are the sweetest fruits

by prinz_charlie



Category: Original Work
Genre: (:, Depression, Substance Abuse, Suicide, and if you're thinking about making a joke about me needing therapy: i know sweetie, i crave validation oof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27498514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prinz_charlie/pseuds/prinz_charlie
Summary: But what if she sees it coming? What if she slows down just enough to look her in the eye and take her hand?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	Lemons are the sweetest fruits

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this story a couple of months ago and felt like sharing it, enjoy. Thanks for translating, Jac. 
> 
> mind the tags

The sunlight falls through the light green top of the lemon tree. The sea rushes sleep inducingly just a couple of meters away. The beach is almost completely empty, except for a few vacationers, who are trying to let their last couple of days in paradise come to an end.

Paradise.

The term rolls around my tongue bitterly. I press my eyes together and shake my head, try to let thoughts grow and thrive, so they consume me, and I perish along with them. So they tear me apart and transform me into something new.

I open my eyes again. Turn my head. Smile.

She’s here.

* * *

I can vividly remember the day I met her for the first time.

My father had sent me outside to play, while mother was waiting for him in the adjacent room. I couldn’t understand what I was supposed to be playing with, since we only had a weatherproof table, three chairs, a sprinkler and a small sandbox, which I never played in because it was inhabited by ants, in our backyard. But I listened to him because I knew how angry he could become if you didn’t do what he asked of you. It was a warm day, warm enough at least. I wore a dark yellow shirt and denim shorts, which I had felt incredibly fashionable in at elementary school the day before. If my parents would’ve been to pay more attention to me, I’m sure they would’ve already been angry with me, since it wasn’t even March yet and I was already going to school dressed like it was “at the height of summer”, as they liked to call it. But they were too busy shouting at each other. Just like they were doing it now.

My legs carried me to the side of our house that didn’t connect to a neighboring house almost automatically. My parents had tried to cover up the fence with flowers and little bushes, but it seemed like they forgot to pay attention to them with their constant arguing. During my 7th birthday party a month ago, they dug all the bushes and flowers out again, instead of joining the treasure hunt my best friend’s mother had organized. The only thing that was left was a small, planted lemon tree. It couldn’t have been taller than half a meter. And somehow, it was my friend. I laid myself down next to it, felt the grass tickle my legs and leaned back. Languidly I stared into nothingness, while tugging blades of grass out of the ground and ripping them into little shreds. I imagined they enjoyed life as confetti more than life as blades of grass, whose ribs would be broken sooner or later, should someone step on them. I imagined them to be special.

A cloud pushed itself in front of the sun, even though the sky had been clear just seconds ago, and I sat in the shade - the far too hot February sun had disappeared.

And then I saw a pair of black sneakers next to me. Had my lemon tree friend come to life? I looked up, let the grass confetti glide from my hands and blinked in surprise.

“Who are you?”

There was a girl in those shoes. She wore beige, baggy pants that were far too big on her and a black sweater; she had drawn the hood over her head. Single strands of hair indicated her long, dark brown hair.

And she smiled at me.

“Who are you?” I repeated my question. “And aren’t you hot?”

She didn’t respond, only looked at my hands, which had instinctively reached for blades of grass again, to abruptly change their lives, then looked into my eyes and did the same. She ripped a single blade of grass into the smallest pieces I had ever seen in my life and threw them into the air. A single one got stuck in my hair. She fished it out and put it in my hand.

“Make a wish,” she smiled. Her voice was weirdly familiar, like an old friend. It was light as a feather and yet weighed a ton. And still, so honest.

I lacked the words then, to describe it all. I only knew I liked her. And that I trusted her. So, I smiled at her. My gaze fell to the piece of grass and I closed my eyes. And then I blew it away. I opened my eyes again and looked at her. Before I could even open my mouth, she shook her head and put her finger on her lips.

“You can’t tell me what you wished for. Otherwise the wish won’t come true.”

I nodded understandingly and leaned back again. “OK.”

She did the same. “OK,” she repeated and started ripping blades of grass out of the ground again. “I always imagine them to get a new life when I rip them apart,” she explained lost in thought. “I imagine them being sent on trips around the world, being able to run away from everything, but always able to run to where they feel most content.” She hesitated a little. “Sometimes I wish I was a grass stalk.”

“Me too,” I agreed. “But I don’t ever rip flowers out of the ground. And from this tree here,” I pointed at the lemon tree, “I don’t take anything either.”

“Why?” She frowned. “What makes them different?”

I thought about it for a short moment. I couldn’t find a good explanation. I always thought they had accomplished so much in their lives because they were so beautiful but looking at the girl next to me and then back at the grass, it didn’t seem plausible to me.

I was just about to stutter a response when the girl got up and looked around. “It’s getting late, I have to go.” And she turned around and walked away. The grass confetti fell from her hand and followed her like a veil.

I jumped to my feet. “Wait!” I yelled. “Who are you?”

But she didn’t turn around and was gone in a moment. Just like that, as if the veil of grass confetti had swallowed her up, perhaps to thank her for its new life. A little disappointed, I let myself sink to the ground next to the lemon tree. As if nothing had happened. I spent the rest of the day next to the tree. I thought about how a world would be where even I - like I am right now - could be a giant. And one day someone would tear me apart and I would explore the world as confetti. Would see everything I only dared to dream of. I stayed there until sunset and kept smiling at my tree friend. I only returned to the house when my mother called me in.

“Did you have a good time playing?” she asked. She sounded exhausted.

I nodded. But I didn’t tell her about my new friend.

The next few days, weeks, months I spent looking for her. I voluntarily went to the backyard every day after school, music lessons, and after doing my homework and waited for her, always next to the lemon tree. But she never returned. One day, months had passed since she first came to see me, friends of my parents came for a visit. They all sat around the table, my parents had even brought out chairs from the dining room, and I once again sat next to my lemon tree. I wasn’t listening to their conversations, I can only remember one specific topic I paid attention to. They talked about me.

“When I tell you, she isn’t normal in the head. Other children play with friends, or jump around, but she’s just sitting there, staring into nothingness.” One of the more know-it-all friends of my parents leaned across the table, which I could see from the corner of my eye. Her almost white curls fell into her face. “She should see a psychologist. It started just like that with my son.”

My father shook his head, like my mother, who smiled politely. “Nonsense, she’s only seven. She’s just special. All those other children just aren’t intelligent enough to be her friends,” my father dismissed her words, my mother nodding along.

They always agreed with each other when guests were around.

I pulled a blade of grass from the ground, tore it apart and wished it was me.

And on that exact same day three months later she was suddenly in my backyard again. I had just come back home from the last school day of the year, however, my parents were working, so I went home alone instead of going to a restaurant or playground to celebrate the day. I would be off to music lessons in an hour. My keyboard teacher had proudly promised me that he would teach me a more difficult piece. I was a little deflated my parents would never get to hear it, but quickly shook off that thought. What did it matter? And there she sat, right next to my - now tall - lemon tree. I let my school bag fall to the ground and ran straight to her. She looked up and a smile spread on her lips. She was wearing the same, far too baggy pants, the same black hoodie. She had only grown a little, just like me. I walked up to her to take her in my arms, but she flinched. I stumbled back. “Where have you been?” I asked.

“Out and about,” she replied simply. The distance between us was way too big in my opinion, but I didn’t dare approach her again. “Do we want to take a seat?” she suggested while already sitting down next to my lemon tree.

I sat down on its other side. “Where have you been?” I repeated my question. “Don’t you have any parents?”

She shrugged. “Technically yes, but they don’t take care of me.”

“My parents are the same,” I quickly replied to cheer her up. I was promptly filled with disillusionment, though. “I thought of you often while you were gone. And I imagined myself to be a blade of grass exploring the world.”

“Is that so?” she smiled mischievously. “Why do you think I’m only back now?”

I looked at her cluelessly. “Maybe because you only now found time?”

She threw me a scrutinizing look before her eyes started sparkling again. “Maybe,” she said. “But maybe because you need me.”

I furled my eyebrows. “Why should I need you?” I pulled a grass stalk from the ground.

“Because you want to be like this,” she simply replied and pointed at the blade of grass I had torn apart only once. “Because your parents aren’t home. Whenever they scream at each other you get a headache and you want them to stop. You want them to take care of you, and to pick you up from school, and to listen to you when you play them a new piece on your keyboard. But because you know it won’t happen, you wish to fly away like the grass stalk.”

Speechless, I stared into her eyes. How did she know all of this about me, and yet I didn’t even know her name?

“Am I right?” she asked, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world. “I am here because you’re not feeling well, and you need me.”

Baffled, I nodded, and, almost without me noticing, a little tear rolled down my cheek. “May I please hug you?” I stuttered.

Almost immediately, she scooted away a couple of centimeters and shook her head. “No.” Her voice was sharp. “Not yet,” she added more quietly. “Someday, maybe. When you really need me.”

My hands fell to my lap. I apologized and thought about her words again. “You were almost right,” I said quietly. “About what you said. I wished for all that, but I also wished to see you again, back when you put the piece of grass on my finger.” I realized my mistake the second the words left my mouth. The girl’s eyes widened, and I slapped my hand in front of my mouth. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean…”

She looked at me, flabbergasted. I gave my wish away. And as if someone had pulled a switch, she disappeared in front of my eyes. I was alone again. Alone with my lemon tree and the blades of grass, that I only grew more jealous of the more days passed.

And years passed.

Years, where I felt bad all too often, but apparently not bad enough for her to come back.

Years, during which I almost forgot her.

Almost.

But of course, she came back. Of course, she came back, just as I had failed my first test in high school and was on my way to keyboard lessons without telling my father, with a cigarette I had bummed off a student I didn’t even know. She looked just like she had then. She had only become taller. Like me. Her face had gotten thinner, perhaps even malnourished. Like mine. Without opening her mouth, I knew I was supposed to follow her. That I wanted to follow her. The crowd of students pouring out of the building ignored me as I followed her. She stopped behind the school, where we were surrounded by trees. She leaned against one of them.

A lemon tree.

I smiled bitterly.

“Your parents are divorced,” she declared and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Her hood fell into her face.

I nodded a little surprised but quickly collected myself. “Yes, they are. How did you know?”

She shrugged. “I know everything you know.” She pulled the hood closer to her face. “How are you? Do you really have to talk to a school counselor?”

I gulped. “Yeah.” I pulled a lighter from my pocket and lit my cigarette. I took a drag. “They say it’s not normal that I barely speak and don’t eat and that I’m more interested in Death than Life.”

“Because it isn't,” she shrugged again. “But I’m not normal, either.” She looked around before her gaze fell back to me. “Don’t you want to go home?”

I took another drag and coughed. “I would much rather talk to you. At home, father will only yell at me. If not because of the test just now, then because of something else. I don’t ever want to go back, if I’m being honest. And I can’t go to my mother’s because her new boyfriend doesn’t like me.” Exhausted, I looked around. “I don’t want to go here anymore, either,” I continued emotionless. “I don’t want to go anywhere anymore.” I shook my head while pushing strands of dark brown hair that had fallen in my face behind my ears. “Talking to you is like escaping; just like when we saw each other last time.”

Proudly, she stretched her arms out and grinned. “That’s what I’m here for,” she chuckled, pleased with herself. I took her gesture as an invitation to hug her, but she raised her arms in defense the second I took a step forward. I stopped dead in the tracks, deflated. Of course, I wouldn’t even get compassion from her. “It’s not the right time,” she said matter of factly. “You’ll survive this. You don’t have to hug me.” She buried her hands in her pockets. “You can’t run away forever,” she continued in an almost lecturing voice. “So, get out of here and go home. And if you like the idea of escaping so much, wait three more years. Then you’re eighteen and free.” She winked. “Then we can both be free.”

With the next drag of my cigarette, she was gone. The only thing that stayed behind was the memory of her words and a weirdly light feeling in my chest – the knowledge that someday, I would escape. A light feeling that carried me through the rest of my school years. That carried me through life at home with my father. That carried me through hopelessness. And that encased me when I got on a train, with a suitcase packed with all my possessions and the credit card to my bank account, leaving home. The train left the station and from the corner of my eye, I saw her again – grinning, a happy glint in her eyes.

It felt almost too natural, seeing her again when I applied for my first job. Unavoidably. I never wanted to work in an office, caged into a system. I wanted to make music. I knew I was good enough for that. But no gigs, no money.

I stood in front of the office building, smoking to calm myself down and not run away immediately. And there she was. Arms crossed in front of her chest.

“You know you’re ruining your body with that, right?” Her voice had gotten deeper, she had grown some more. Like me.

The answer fell from my lips abruptly. “What do you think is my goal?” She rolled her eyes. I shook my head and smiled a little. “May I finally hug you today?”

She burst out laughing. “Of course not. What you went through in high school is way worse than this. Be grateful I haven’t allowed you to hug me yet.”

I sighed acquiescently and shook my head. “Still, it’s nice seeing you again.” She was my reminder of a way out. Of the life as a blade of grass, I had always dreamed of as a kid. I still dreamed of today.

Her lips curled into a soft smile. “As if I’d ever let you go.”

The words suddenly sounded way too close to a threat to be affectionate. “What do you mean by that?” I raised an eyebrow.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” she grinned mischievously. “But I know this won’t be the last time you’ll want to escape.” She turned around, flipped me the peace sign as a goodbye, and disappeared in the crowd.

A little concerned I snuffed out the cigarette against the concrete and took a deep breath; pinched myself in the arm. “Everything’s ok,” I falsely encouraged myself as I turned away from the crowds of people and entered the gray building. The first thing I saw between the reception desk and gray tables and chairs was a small, puny lemon tree in a corner.

Of course.

* * *

And now, twenty years after seeing her for the first time, she’s lying next to me again. After years of gigs that turned me into a shell of the person I used to be. After years of desperation and contemplating... She still looks the same, is still as tall as me, still wearing the same hoodie and baggy pants, even though it’s summer and we’re lying on a beach in Italy. I don’t question it.

“Did you get the job?” she asks. Her hood falls into her face.

I roll my eyes. “Of course not. Don’t pretend like you don’t already know that.” I turn my head and continue staring through the leaves of the lemon tree.

“I was just trying to be nice,” she mutters. “What happened to your music career?”

“You know,” I mumble. “Our band is good, to say the least, clubs like us, my bandmates are great…”

“But what about you?” she interrupts me. As she turns her head to peek through the top of the tree herself, some sand blows into my eyes.

But it doesn’t bother me. Nothing bothers me anymore.

I sigh. “I hate it,” I breathe out. “Standing on the stage doesn’t give me the same feeling anymore as it used to. It drains me of all my energy. For almost a year I’ve been walking around as an empty shell. Making music... it isn't what it used to be.” Speaking is hard, has been for a couple of months. But I carry on. “Nothing is like it used to be anymore.” Carry on further. “Sometimes I think my father was right when he said I was bound to fail." My voice falters at the memory. "I remember the first time we saw each other, far too often; the shreds of grass. I know, it’s stupid to believe in that, but sometimes I still ask myself where they might have landed. If they’re free…” I press my eyes shut and shake my head. Whatever. “Why are you here?” I ask, weakly. “Why now?”

I open my eyes again and see her welcoming smile out of the corner of my eye. “Because I know which decision you’ve made after all the times you wanted to escape.”

We turn our heads to each other at the same time. Suddenly, the words fall from my lips way too easily. “To leave.”

“To leave,” she nods sympathetically. “And that’s what I’m here for: to go with you. Every time I was with you, you wanted to escape, one way or another. And now you know what that means. What exactly that means. And that’s what I’m here for. To go with you.”

I smile. For the first time in months. A sliver of hope. Finally. “To go with me.”

To be free, like a torn-up grass stalk. Everything around us is like it was in my childhood when I met her for the first time. The ocean like the sprinkler. The beach like the sandbox. The lemon tree. Everything’s perfect… perfect to leave. Perfect to be destroyed, in order to finally live.

My gaze falls down. She makes a grab for my hand. She looks in my eyes with a smile and nods. “It’s not a hug, but it’s enough.”

And she takes my hand.

So many times, I’ve reached for her. So many times. Every time she turned me away. But now it’s finally time. Finally. And suddenly, everything becomes clear.

“I know it,” I breathe out.

“What?”

“Lucie,” my name falls from my lips. “Your name is Lucie. You’re me,” I whisper. Suddenly, I know why she always showed up when I was miserable. When I wanted to leave.

I am the one who would tear myself – the blade of grass – into confetti; to bring to life.

“You’re me,” I repeat. “You are what I wanted to do when I couldn’t do anything anymore and was standing at the edge.”

Lucie nods, a pained expression in her eyes. “I am,” she says wistfully. “And now I’ll bring you where you’ve always wanted to go.”

Unspoken, the place hangs between us. The place that’s truly paradise. And she encloses my hand. Solid. Secure. And I feel myself slip.

To freedom.


End file.
